


Felled by You, Held by You

by WordsAndWishes



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mob AU, no beta we die like men, peaky blinders inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsAndWishes/pseuds/WordsAndWishes
Summary: Rhysand Nox is the Crime Lord of Prythian's most feared gang. Nothing can shake him - except Feyre Archeron.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Felled by You, Held by You

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful @highladysith on tumblr: "I told you not to fall in love with me." They made this request quite a while ago, and I have no excuse for not finishing sooner, except that Feyre and Rhys absolutely did not want to talk to each other! I'm pretty happy with how this turned out.
> 
> Mob AU. Most of my organized crime knowledge is gathered from either true crime documentaries or Peaky Blinders, so don't judge me too harshly! I just finished the first season, and certain events in this are based off the show. 
> 
> Title from NFWMB by Hozier.

Rhysand Nox was whistling, of all things, and he took the stairs two at a time. He was plenty anxious to get back to Feyre, who he had left standing by the bed with a small smile. That, and the promise that when he returned, she would be wearing a lovely red number that left certain areas exposed.

It still felt a little bit unreal, like a dream. His brothers had found love and folly in the recent years, but Rhysand had never wanted to try for it again. Better to never risk being hurt than suffer the consequences. He had his family to keep him busy, and that was enough.

But then she had turned up. The sharp-tongued barmaid had appeared on Windhaven’s doorstep, looking for a job at the pub.

At first, he had told her no. Said she wouldn’t last a week with all the characters that skulked around the pub. On top of that, she didn’t look like she had made a drink in her life. But she had persisted, and he had said yes.

In the past few months, she had become his personal secretary. And then – something more. Somehow, that sharp wit, that bright smile, had become something he looked forward to each day. Rhys didn’t even know how long it would last, if she would truly stay with him – but he wanted her to.

More than he had wanted anything or anyone. Even the title he had fought so hard to earn; Crime Lord of the Night Family.

Amren was right, love really had made him a fool.

Rhysand reached the top of the steps and swung the bedroom door open, the bottle of vodka in one hand. It nearly fell to the floor as he beheld the sight that awaited him.

The list of people who Rhysand expected to hold him at gunpoint was quite long. But he had never imagined Feyre Archeron would be on it.

She stood across the room, on the far side of the bed. Her hands didn’t tremble, finger resting squarely on the trigger with the gun aimed at his forehead. He couldn’t see her feet, but he knew she would be standing with perfect form. Just like he had taught her.

“So jittery that you’re pointing a gun at every man who walks through the door?” He quipped, grasping for a way to get ahold of the situation. “Did the break-in last month scare you that much? You know the bastards that did it are –”

“Quiet!” Feyre exclaimed. Her voice wasn’t the slightest bit shaky.

His hand instinctively crept for his gun before he realized that this was the one time – the one time he had gone anywhere without it. He had taken it off along with his suit jacket when he went downstairs for the liquor. Now it was sitting on the desk across the room, right next to his holster and a heavy-looking decorative vase. Next to Feyre. He had a single blade in a forearm sheath, but besides that, he was unarmed.

Rhys had, quite literally, brought a knife to a gunfight.

So he fell back on his wits to save him, raising an eyebrow. “Or what? You’ll shoot me? You told me you had never killed a man, Feyre. Is that true?” He ventured a step forward, leaning forward to set the bottle of vodka down on the dresser. Her aim tracked his movement.

She didn’t say a word.

“Was any of it true?” He asked again. “What the hell is going on?” The anger came out halfhearted; he was still shellshocked. But the pieces were beginning to weave together. Feyre had been an unnaturally quick study. Too quick. Eager to learn when he had offered to teach her to defend herself. This would likely not be her first kill.

Rhysand took another breath to steady himself. It wasn’t the fact that he was staring down the barrel of a gun, that somebody was threatening his life. It was practically a weekly occurrence for him. It was that the one with a finger on the trigger was Feyre.

“I told you not to fall in love with me,” Feyre whispered, and for the first time, she looked like she might cry. “I told you because I knew it would come to this, you idiot, that both of us would only get burned, and that in the end, we would still be right here.”

Somewhere, Rhysand’s heart was breaking, but right now the cold anger was rising up. “Was I supposed to take from that conversation that you were planning to assassinate me? Was fucking me just another way to get close to me? For the money, for influence?” He studied her – the strands of hair falling out of her tidy bun, the beads of sweat gathering on her forehead. The storm-grey eyes that held oceans within them. He couldn’t find the answers he sought within them.

She shook her head, still keeping the gun steady, and aimed at his forehead. “No – never. I thought then that I could somehow find a way out of it.“ She paused. “You truly believe I was using you?”

“I don’t fucking know what to think, Feyre! One minute we’re coming home from a prosperous day and I’m imagining all sorts of things with you, and the next, you have a gun to my head. I don’t think you’re in a position to be making any judgments about me right now.” There it was. That rage that could break and destroy enemies, barely leashed.

She sucked in a breath sharply. “That’s fair.” It sounded so small. As if those were the only words she could think of to encompass it. Then she added on, “I didn’t want it to happen like this. It would have been so much easier if we both had kept our distance.” As small as she sounded, there was steel in her eyes. Feyre had never been meek of subtle in the time he knew her, but now she was pure willpower. Whatever mask she had been wearing was gone. Her mind knew what she had to do, it was just a matter of convincing her body to pull the trigger.

Rhys would know.

He cut her off. “What you felt was real, then?” _Was it as real for you as it was for me?_

“Would it be easier if I said no?”

The tone of her voice said it all. She remembered the same things he did, had felt that magnetic spark between them. She remembered their first meeting, how she had walked with that stillness and grace. How he had found her staying late at the bar one night, cleaning up long after everyone else had gone home. How she had seen a shadow skulking by the window and saved both their lives.

How that same night had ended with them in the same bed, tangled together with no beginning and no end. Her hands, feather-light as they traced his tattoos. His hands in her hair, between her legs. Rhysand had always been a man of cold edges, steel and willpower. But with Feyre, he would always be gentle.

Yes, they both remembered it. She had whispered into his chest that she would only break his heart, that they couldn’t be together. At the time, Rhysand had thought she was prideful, knew she was too good for a bastard who washed his hands in blood. But he had been willing to take whatever she would offer. Men in love were desperate creatures.

He remembered how he had let her lay her head on his chest and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Their breathing evened out as his arms looped around her body, protecting her from the draft coming in through the window. And no nightmares plagued either of them that night.

It had been two weeks since then.

“If someone is threatening you, we can work our way out of it. Whatever you think of me, I do have the resources. Our coffers are plenty full.”

Once again, she didn’t say anything. Her brow only furrowed, as if grinding out a single word would be unbearable.

“If you’re going to kill me, you could at least bother giving me a straight answer before I die, Feyre.” He let a bit of that anger seep into his voice again. No matter who she was, she had betrayed him and his family. “Answer me this, then. Who are you working for?” He felt ridiculous, asking all the questions like a confused schoolboy.

“The Hybern Kings sent me. Told me to get a job at Windhaven, to get close to you. I believed the rumors, I thought you were a monster.” She whispered. He fought a flinch as she continued, “they have my family and there’s practically a noose around my neck. I didn’t want this, I’ll…admit that.” 

Of course, it was the Kings. The only gang in Prythian that rivaled the Night Family. The same ones that had been robbing his businesses and getting in the way of his plans with the stock market. The only ones Rhys would give any real thought before crossing.

“Let me help you, Feyre.” He said softly. The anger was still there, but how could he judge her? He would do the same for his family. Hell, he had done worse for them. But he could find a way to help Feyre, save her from the same damnation that awaited him. If there was one thing he was known for, it was defying the odds.

Cauldron, he didn’t even know what family she had, who was being threatened. Everyone he let into his life went through such scrutiny that spies were practically impossible. He had done a bit of looking into Feyre, but clearly, not enough. When she was vague with her answers, he had assumed that it was linked back to the trauma he knew she was harboring. And he wasn’t enough of a bastard to pry into that.

“Feyre.” He said again. It was enough for her to finally lower the gun, ever so slightly. It was pointed at the right side of his ribcage now. Off-center enough that a bullet wound probably wouldn’t kill him. He took another step forward. He knew better than to condescend and insist that she put the gun down.

“Tell me what I can do.”

“Rhys, even Night won’t stand a chance against Hybern now. They’re joining with Springer. It’s been planned for months.”

“Then we strike now, rather than later. I have more dirt on them than you would believe.”

Her face remained impassive. “They will destroy my family, Rhys.” He could see in her eyes just how much the thought of it killed her.

“If you were going to kill me, I think you would have done it by now,” he mused. “You’ll be screwing over half the city by killing me – that’s what Hybern wants, isn’t it? The Seven will have so much infighting that they’ll be primed for the taking. Do you want that kind of blood on your hands?”

“It’s yours or my sisters.” She ground out. From here, he could see her grip on the gun tighten, knuckles turning white. Still aimed at his chest.

“Do you even know what I have on them? Just because you’re my private secretary doesn’t mean you’re privy to all of my information. You don’t have to choose.” He let that sepulchral, smooth tone into his voice. The kind of tone he had used to get a great number of people to do quite a few things.

Something flashed in her eyes. Feyre lowered the gun slowly as if it pained her to do it. Then she glanced to the side, to the neatly made bed. A quick motion and she had tossed the gun across the bed, far out of her reach. So she couldn’t change her mind.

In the span of a heartbeat, Rhys had pulled his knife free and stepped forward, only a few feet separating them now. The wall on one side, the bed on the other. He kept the knife steady, ready to use it if he had to.

Feyre eyed the blade. “Oh, so you’re going to kill me instead?” He was surprised she hadn’t tried to do any bargaining when she had him at gunpoint, tie him into a promise of honor.

Rhys snorted. “Just a precaution, Feyre darling. In case you decide to claw my eyes out anyway.”

She stepped forward, tears in her eyes threatening to spill over. She reached a hand up to cup his cheek, close enough that the long knife was only a breath away from puncturing into the soft skin of her stomach. Part of him cried out to lean into that touch, hold her and never let go. But instead, he backed away. If it stung her, she didn’t let it show.

He might be holding the weapon, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let the person who had held a gun to him that close. 

She leaned back again and whispered, so softly he could barely hear it. “Leave the city, Rhys. Lay low for a while. Hybern won’t stop until they have your head.”

“And let Night be taken over in my absence?” He wouldn’t leave, and they both knew it.

“I offered you my help, and I intend to keep my promise. Explain the whole thing from the beginning.” Feyre looked pointedly at the knife. With a sigh, Rhys slid it back into the sheath along his forearm. His gun, still on the desk, was well within both of their reaches now. But neither one grabbed for it.

Finally, Feyre spoke. “Pour me some liquor first,” she insisted, jerking her chin toward the dresser where the vodka sat, all but forgotten.

“As the lady wishes.” Rhys did grab his gun off the desk now, slinging the holster back on over his shoulders and tucking the revolver into it. He strode over to the dresser, pouring her a knuckle into the glass sitting there.

The impossibility of the situation was still catching up to him, he couldn’t reconcile with the volatile storm of emotions in his chest.

Suddenly, he felt something hit his head with a thud, and the world went black.

\----

Feyre dropped the heavy vase, just managing to catch Rhys as his eyes rolled back in his head, grunting under the weight. The blow had hit him square in the back of the head.

She heaved him so he was – mostly – on the bed. His legs still hung off at an awkward angle, but at least he hadn’t hit the floor.

Cauldron, when had she gone so soft?

 _You could still kill him._ A voice whispered in the back of her head. _Kill him, and be done with it_. He had underestimated her this whole time – didn’t realize that her soft feet could sneak up on even him, Prythian’s most cunning Crime Lord. If you couldn’t hear you enemy coming, all the cleverness in the world wouldn’t save you. Hell, he had been stupid enough to turn his back in the first place. Anyone could have killed him. He was lucky that she had settled for knocking him out with the metal vase.

Was lucky that she couldn’t bear to see more blood on her hands.

She should really kill him. He had killed Clare, he was all that was standing between her and freedom.

She took her gun back again but didn’t bother pointing at him. The lump in her throat wouldn’t go down.

Who was she kidding?

She loved him.

Those hands that had killed Clare were the same hands she had held in her own. The same hands that had held her in her weakest moment.

Somehow, impossibly, she had been so wrong about him. Her whole plan had gone to hell because she couldn’t kill one man. And now it was an insurmountable mess. But she wouldn’t let herself fall apart now, wouldn’t let the tears fall.

But now she had to work fast - she had ten minutes, maximum, before he woke up.

Ten minutes to get out and get a head start to his office. To find his papers with the intel against Hybern. 

Feyre’s eyes darted around the room. No rope, but the heavy navy curtains had thick ties that they could be pulled back with. Darting across the room, she ripped them off the curtains and made quick work of pushing Rhys onto his side. With her shaking hands, she tied his hands and feet into complex knots that would take him a few minutes to get out of. She was sure to take his knife as well, tucking it into her own belt.

When he woke up, he would be mad as hell. Who knew if he would forgive her – for trying to kill him, for knocking him out anyway. But it didn’t matter. She would get to his office, steal anything useful she could find. From there, she has until morning to get her sisters out of the city. If she was lucky, she might be able to leave as well, and never see him again. And leave the only home she had ever known.

Hybern would be sending more assassins to Rhysand, but this time he would be ready. And she couldn’t be looking back for him. Not when she had the Archerons to look out for.

She took one final look at Rhys, unconscious on the bed, knocked out cold. There was an uncommon look of peace on his face, though his raven hair was swept messily to one side.

Then, making sure her gun was secured in its holster, she opened the second-floor window. She sprang from it, graceful as a wraith, and landed on her feet. She always did.

From there, it was only a matter of moments before the night swallowed her up.

**Author's Note:**

> I might continue this with a few more vignette-style looks into Feyre and Rhysand's encounters. They never can seem to stay away from each other.


End file.
